Sentences with phrase «small raised air»

Not exact matches

She's old, very old, and she sits in her Sunday clothes and her small hands are raised up in the air, barely.

A separate study by the Bloomberg School released Wednesday showed that even small amounts of air pollution appear to raise the risk of a condition in pregnant women linked to premature births.

Off - Rower Exercises (7 minutes): Lower Body (30 seconds each): Forward lunges, side lunges, reverse lunges, air squats, and squats with calf raises Core Work (30 seconds each): Forearm plank with small alternating leg lifts, side plank with hip dips, and high plank with shoulder taps Upper Body (30 seconds): Pushups

For example, after raising the power liftgate, I noticed a small rocker switch that allows the owner to temporarily lower the SUV's rear air suspension to aid in loading cargo.

Sourced in New Zealand and made with humanely - raised meats, nourish Jerky Bites are gently air - dried at low temperatures, in small batches, to naturally preserve the meat without using artificial preservatives.

That's right — these air - driven filters are perfect for small tanks used to raise juvenile fish and house specimens recuperating from disease or injury.

Designed more for function than style, the large and immaculately kept rooms are equipped with soft beds raised off white tile floors, air - con and fans, fridges, safes, wide glass windows and small terraces.

There's plenty of provocation on hand as well, notably Paul McCarthy's surprisingly direct broadside of Jeff Koons in the form of glossy sculptures of balloon dogs — with a gigantic hot - air version perched outside the fair's entrance — that tweak that fellow mega-artist for his eyebrow - raising 2011 legal fight with a small San Francisco bookstore selling mini balloon dog sculptures.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,